The Red Flare
by A Timid Soul
Summary: Haven is falling around him, but all he can think about is one woman in the fray. The events of Haven from Cullen's perspective as he struggles to face his feelings for the Herald.


Cries of the fallen and screams from the faithful choked the fated night's air with oppressive fear. Tainted ash threatened to encroach on the holy site, but stalwart defenders still raised shields in defiance to the evil around them. It was a night that would shake all of Thedas, and one the commander tried desperately to control. He grasped at tactics like begging men grasped at cloaks, wanting desperately to find purchase in a night that was quickly spiraling out of his control. But as the smoke began to settle into his armor and his men continued to paint the ground with their blood, he knew that tonight would bring no victory.

"Fall back! Fall back to the Chantry!" Cullen yelled as he ushered soldiers through the steady wooden gate of the Temple. Each face, no matter the terror or pain etched into the features, brought him a small amount of hope; they were alive, and any small victory was one to be praised. His eyes finally found a sight they ached to see, relaxing slightly although his heart thumped madly in concern.

"Herald, quickly!" he barked, as he waved them in. He watched as she faltered a moment when her eyes flicked back to the burning mass swelling behind them, breath catching in a moment of overwhelming fear, but continued her journey and made her way safely behind the gates. He could feel the way his tongue wetted his lips in an attempt to voice words he had buried deep in his heart, but the determined heat from the elf's eyes reminded him of his duty and set him on his path.

"What do we do?" she asked, voice achingly familiar but hardened by battle.

"At this point," began Cullen as he turned towards the steps, "just make them work for it."

He searched for meaning in her gaze, inappropriately hoping that he would see his own emotions reflected in hers, but the blonde elf quickly turned to the rest of her troop and barked orders with a confidence the Dalish had never shown before. Reluctantly, the commander forced his legs back to the Chantry, ignoring the bile that singed his chest as he did so. _I'm afraid_ , he mused idly as he jogged back to the solemn building but knew that those words did not match his thundering heart. He distracted himself from the feeling as he pushed orders onto the soldiers around him, watching as wide eyed recruits were tempered in the horrors of war. What felt like eons later, the doors of the Chantry groaned in their duty and allowed the Herald to grace its halls once more.

He ignored the wounded Roderick and unfamiliar boy as he strode straight to the Herald, forcing his hand down as he began to reach for her arm.

"Herald," began Cullen, voice soft as he gazed at woman before him. He watched as she turned a wild gaze upon him, eyes shining with tears that she refused to release. "Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us."

"I've seen an archdemon," came the airy and distant voice of the young boy. "I was in the Fade, but it looked like that."

Annoyed, the Commander cut him off. "I don't care what it looks like, it's cut a path for that army! They'll kill everyone in Haven." He ignored the way his heart lurched as he delivered the news, the way his eyes focused only on the Herald.

"He doesn't want Haven; he only wants the Herald," countered the young boy.

"I'd give myself if it meant saving Haven," said the elf quickly, words heavy with the weight of duty.

"No," responded Cullen emphatically, all eyes turning to him. "There are no tactics that make this survivable," he hurried in attempt to cover his outburst. "The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchet, cause one last slide."

"But in order to do that, we'd bury Haven," replied the Herald, eyes almost taken aback that the lion-hearted man would suggest such a thing.

"We're dying," he said softly, face tugging down as he acknowledged the despair that clung to the edges of his mind. "But we can choose how. Not many get that choice."

He felt a pang in his chest as the Herald frowned and stepped back from him, shaking her head in disagreement. "Haven will not fall; not while I still stand."

"There is another way," rasped Chancellor Roderick, words stunting the admiration that blossomed at the elf's words. He listened as the priest revealed a hidden passageway, and before long he was barking orders to get the final trebuchet loaded. The Herald rolled her shoulders, oddly content and determined in her role. He noticed the way her grip tightened on the blades in her hand, though, and knew that a duty he couldn't even begin to fathom pressed on her shoulders. But as she faced the doors of the Chantry again, releasing a small breath before straightening her back and setting her jaw, Cullen had the feeling that Andraste herself guided the woman before him. He allowed himself a moment of weakness as he watched her form dart back into the fray, hearing her frustrated cry as she greeted the enemy around her, before the Chantry doors slid shut once more and closed him to the outside world. Cullen quickly breathed a small prayer for the elf before he turned and returned to his duty.

* * *

"We've hit the tree line, Commander," came the report, and all hope that Cullen had carried to this point disappeared into the night air, vanishing into the smoke that lazily lofted from the ruins before them. He nodded to the messenger and absently began to look for a flare. He tried to focus on his task but could only taste bile. He tried to force air into his chest as he felt it constrict, catching himself as the beginnings of some strangled cry murmured in the recesses of his chest but bit his tongue. His eyes kept flicking to the path behind him, vainly searching for the familiar blonde to emerge from the dirtied snow, but as a recruit tapped him on the shoulder and presented him with a flare, despair pressed on his heart and wiped the last seeds of hope from his mind.

She was not coming back.

It struck him then, while he stood and stared at the red object in his shaking hand, while his heart constricted in fear, while the pressure behind his eyes ached to be relieved and his breathing took on a definitively ragged rhythm, how much he truly cared for the Herald. He had felt inklings of emotion for the woman before, surprised by her quiet confidence in the war room, impressed with her rapport with his men, and touched by her genuine wish to know him, but he had smothered them, knowing that affairs of the world far preceded those of his heart. But now, with what remained of the Inquisition at his back, he knew just how much those feelings had grown and felt the roots of it threaten to suffocate the fragile hold he had on his emotions.

"Commander?" queried the recruit, and, ignoring the way his eyes blurred and how he couldn't quite catch his breath, he struck a match, coaxed the flame to take the wick, and watched as the flare leapt into the sky, low vibrations echoing around them. He felt nauseous as he waited, eyes searching the too far away embers in an empty hope to see the Herald alive. In an odd sort of answer to his searchings, the valley rumbled with the vibrations of the mountains, and the snow beat a relentless path to the one place where hope still flickered defiantly into the night. A moment later, he absently registered the sound of the spent flare hitting the packed snow.

"We make camp," Cullen ordered wearily into the air, and as the order spread, the group began to shuffle into motion. The lion-hearted man continued to stand, hand still gripping the object that had sealed the Herald's doom, as his shoulders threatened to quake. He could still picture her smile and the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, could still see the faint outlines of her swirling tattoo elegantly draped on her forehead, could still remember the determined blaze that seethed behind her eyes as the enemy marched upon Haven. But they would be extinguished now, hard snow burying the place that Cullen had started to call home and a woman who merited the respect of all she met. He could feel the coldness of the night numb his fingers but still gripped the flare until he felt his knuckles cry out in pain. Only then did he turn his back on Haven and retreat to the camp behind him.

* * *

Cullen paced automatically around the fringes of the camp, insisting that he do something to keep his mind from wondering too much. The camp was quiet and solemn, already mourning the loss of many great people. It was suffocating to be around, and the crisp air of the night did nothing to fight away the despair that clogged the commander's mind. It was on his third patrol of the perimeter, snow starting to wear away neatly beneath his boots, that he heard a sound. His head snapped up, hand already on the sword at his side, when he saw a figure before him. He tried to walk briskly towards the source and as the shadows cleared in front of him, he watched as the Herald, bloodied and bruised, collapsed to her knees, legs buckling under the strain of a hero's walk. Cullen let out a strangled noise of concern, running in the snow towards her.

"It's her!" he yelled to the camp as he neared the woman. "She's alive!"

"Thank the Maker!" echoed Josephine. But Cullen did not hear. He was already scooping the elf into his arms, rushing back to the camp as fast as his legs would allow as his eyes remained fixed on the sight before him. She was battered and pale, purple lips nearly matching the ink of her tattoo, but she was alive. She forced life giving air into her lungs and breathed. Cullen felt his own chest expand in return, giddy joy muddled with worried concern as he gently placed her on a cot.

"You're alive," he whispered, words escaping past his teeth as the breath rushed out of him. The elf simply continued to breathe as healers and attendants fussed over her, hiding her from the Commander's sight. He ached to see her face again, to prove to himself that she wasn't some idle fantasy that sprung from his terror plagued mind. But as the whispers around him formed the syllables of her name, he knew that she was no facade. He knew, with a relieved heart and rekindled hope, that his Herald was alive, and for the first time during the harrowing night, Cullen allowed himself a genuine smile.

* * *

 _Author's Note_ : Been in the mood to edit some old works, it seems, so here ya' go! I had wanted to write a scene about the Inquisitor's walk back from Haven, but it didn't seem to be working (plus, it's already so well done in the game), so I decided to take a stab at it from Cullen's point of view. Not sure if I really nailed down how a seasoned Commander would handle the situation, but hey! That's for y'all to let me know. :) Thanks for reading, folks! And if you're of a mind, leave a review!


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